“The Turks will turn the castle into a pile of ruins,” said some voice.
“Let them turn it. We can defend ourselves from a pile of ruins.”
Here patience failed the little knight somewhat. “And I will defend myself from a pile of ruins, so help me God! Finally, I tell you that I will not surrender the castle. Do you hear?”
“But will you destroy the town?” asked the bishop. “If to go against the Turks is to destroy it, I prefer to destroy it. I have taken my oath; I will not waste more words; I will go back among cannon, for they defend the Commonwealth instead of betraying it.”
Then he went out, and after him Humyetski, who slammed the door. Both hastened greatly, for they felt really better among ruins, corpses, and balls than among men of little faith. Pan Makovetski came up with them on the way.
“Michael,” said he, “tell the truth, did you speak of resistance only to increase courage, or will you be able really to hold out in the castle?”
The little knight shrugged his shoulders. “As God is dear to me! Let the town not surrender, and I will defend the castle a year.”
“Why do you not fire? People are alarmed on that account, and talk of surrender.”
“We do not fire, because we are busy with hand-grenades, which have caused considerable harm in the mines.”
“Listen, Michael, have you in the castle such defence that you could strike at the Russian gate in the rear?—for if, which God prevent, the Turks break through, they will come to the gate. I am watching with all my force; but with townspeople only, without soldiers, I cannot succeed.”
To which the little knight answered: “Fear not, dear brother; I have fifteen cannon turned to that side. Be at rest too concerning the castle. Not only shall we defend ourselves, but when necessary we will give you reinforcement at the gates.”
When he heard this, Makovetski was delighted greatly, and wished to go away, when the little knight detained him, and asked further—
“Tell me, you are oftener at these councils, do they only wish to try us, or do they intend really to give Kamenyets into the hands of the Sultan?”
Makovetski dropped his head. “Michael,” said he, “answer truly now, must it not end in that? We shall resist awhile yet, a week, two weeks, a month, two months, but the end will be the same.”
Volodyovski looked at him gloomily, then raising his hands cried—
“And thou too, Brutus, against me? Well, in that case swallow your shame alone; I am not used to such diet.”
And they parted with bitterness in their hearts.
The mine under the main gate of the old castle exploded soon after Pan Michael’s return. Bricks and stones flew; dust and smoke rose. Terror dominated the hearts of the gunners. For a while the Turks rushed into the breach, as rush sheep through the open gate of a sheepfold, when the shepherd and his assistants urge them in with whips. But Ketling breathed on that crowd with cartridges from six cannon, prepared previously on the wall; he breathed once, a second, a third time, and swept them out of the court. Pan Michael, Humyetski, and Myslishevski hurried up with infantry and dragoons, who covered the walls as quickly as flies on a hot day cover the carcass of a horse or an ox. A struggle began then between muskets and janissary guns. Balls fell on the wall as thickly as falls rain, or kernels of wheat which a strong peasant hurls from his shovel. The Turks were swarming in the ruins of the new castle; in every depression, behind every fragment, behind every stone, in every opening of the ruin, they sat in twos, threes, fives, and tens, and fired without a moment’s intermission. From the direction of Hotin came new reinforcements continually. Regiment followed regiment, and crouching down among the ruins began fire immediately. The new castle was as if paved with turbans. At times those masses of turbans sprang up suddenly with a terrible outcry, and ran to the breach; but then Ketling raised his voice, the bass of the cannon drowned the rattle of musketry, and a storm of grapeshot with whistling and terrible rattling confused the crowd, laid them on the ground, and closed up the breach with a quivering mass of human flesh. Four times the janissaries rushed forward; four times Ketling hurled them back and scattered them, as a storm scatters a cloud of leaves. Alone amid fire, smoke, showers of earth-clods, and bursting grenades, he was like an angel of war. His eyes were fixed on the breach, and on his serene forehead not the slightest anxiety was evident. At times he seized the match from the gunner and touched the priming; at times he covered his eyes with his hand and observed the effect of the shot; at times he turned with a smile to the Polish officers and said—
“They will not enter.”
Never was rage of attack repulsed with such fury of defence. Officers and soldiers vied with one another. It seemed that the attention of those men was turned to everything save death; and death cut down thickly. Pan Humyetski fell, and Pan Mokoshytski, commander of the men of Kiev. At last the white-haired Pan Kalushovski seized his own breast with a groan; he was an old friend of Pan Michael, as mild as a lamb, but a soldier as terrible as a lion. Pan Michael caught the falling man, who said, “Give your hand, give your hand quickly!” then he added, “Praise be to God!” and his face grew as white as his beard. That was before the fourth attack. A party of janissaries had come inside the breach,
